Hi there!

My first fic under this account. And first fic under WH13. Woo!

Help me celebrate by reviewing this story!

Thank you much

M.

(I own nothing)

UPDATE (07/09/2013):

In honor of the third anniversary of this fic, I'm going through the story and sprucing it up a bit. Nothing too drastic as I'd like to keep the flavor off the early chapters. The evolution of my writing is pretty evident over the course of the story (to me at least :]), and I think it adds a certain charm. Although I might just have to overhaul the first chapter. I'll think about it.

Just fixing a few errors and (very) minor plot-holes that no one but me probably noticed. Have a great day!

Chapter 1.

"Hey there, Partner. How're you feeling?"

This was the second day in a row Pete Lattimer had awoke to his partner smiling at him in his hospital bed. A wonderful smile that he had complemented once upon a time. He would never admit that he, at least once every investigation, hoped to be critically injured so that he could behold Myka Bering's wonderful smile again. He smiled back.

"Pretty good, considering I've been shot in the heart." Pete attempted to make a joke. Myka's smile dropped, leaving a grim face. Pete remembered that this event took place just days before now; it was probably still fresh in her memory.

And fresh it was. She could vividly recall the look of pure shock on his face as he fell backwards, blood staining his suit from a hole in his chest. Myka had stood there for a moment with a look on her face that closely resembled Pete's, not even registering the fact that the shooter had run away. She had thought for sure that Pete was dead until he called her name weakly. She had then regained her wits and called for help, in a highly distressed tone.

There was something else in her solemn look, something other than him being shot. He could feel it, a vibe.

"What is it, Myka? What happened during the surgery?" He asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"There never was a surgery, Pete." Myka stated matter-of-factly, as if he'd already been told this information. In fact, he probably was already told, but the pain medication he was taking took a toll on his short term memory. Pain meds tend to be stronger when you've been shot in the heart.

He explained this to Myka and she had the doctor come in to fill in the details. Dr. Vanger was a tall man with wispy blond-grey hair, and a friendly smile. He had a prominent Swedish accent.

"Well, Agent Lattimer, a short while after you were stabilized, I ordered a chest X-ray," Dr. Vanger held up the translucent, bluish sheets up as proof. He pulled up a stool near his bed to show him. "Right here," He pointed to a small white circle. "Is the bullet that shot you." Pete inched as close as he could before a horrid stinging pain caused him to lay back down.

"You see, that little bullet, against all probability, has lodged itself between your Aorta and Pulmonary Artery. It's quite a miracle that you did not bleed to death at the scene."

Pete interjected, "Well, in our line of work, you can forget probability."

Myka added, "And learn to accept miracles."

The doctor gave a stutter of a laugh and continued, "With a bullet in such a precarious position it would be highly dangerous, if not impossible, for us to attempt to remove it."

Pete gave a worried look to Myka. Obviously, they could not use that fact that the bullet was a possibly dangerous artifact in their bid for the surgery. Not to mention that they were agents whose job it is to hunt the objects down and lock them away forever.

The doctor told Pete to get some rest and that he would be up on his feet in a couple days, and in full working, president-saving order in a few weeks. They thanked the doctor and he left the room in a long stride.

Pete and Myka exchanged a look. They both reached for the Farnsworth that was on the small table next to Pete's bed.

"Children should learn not to touch what's not theirs!" Artie yelled, mad over the latest artifact disturbance. Claudia was not in the least bit affected by his anger.

"Artemis, I've spent more of my life in this Warehouse than I have outside. This is now my domain. And all that inhabit it." She stopped on the small balcony outside Artie's office and held her hands out wide to the warehouse's contents. Artie was not amused.

He entered the office, leaving Claudia alone to declare her echoing statement of ownership over all things warehouse, to see that Pete and Myka were waiting for him. He sat his bag onto the desk and walked over to them.

"Okay." He said, slapping the usual thick manila folder on the table in front of them. They took a moment to skim it over. "This is an artifact that I haven't been investigating for some time now."

Pete broke his and Myka's silence, not looking up from the folder. "Whoa, two years. Why the wait?"

Artie sat in a chair near them. "Because, the disturbances ended for such a long while that I thought I hit a dead end."

"Until now?"

"Until now."

"So, wait. Do we already know what it is?" Myka asked.

Artie nodded. "Mhmm. Yes. It is, in fact, Jesse James' pistol." Followed by the obligatory moment of emphatic silence.

Pete sniggered, "Reeeeach for the sky!"

Artie ignored him while Myka took the opportunity to berate him.

"Pete, That's Woody from Toy Story." On the outside she was annoyed, but on the inside she was smiling at Pete's slight embarrassment.

"This man," She pointed at the black-and-white photograph in her folder, "was a cold-blooded killer. An outlaw."

"So, what does it do?" Pete sighed noncommittally, brushing off Myka's previous comment, and flipping through the pages in the folder swiftly.

"Well," Artie started, "I don't exactly know."

He met the curious expressions of Pete and Myka. "I've followed the trail of James' pistol from his killer, Robert Ford, to three-and-a-half years ago. Passed from criminal to criminal," He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his forearm, "And let me tell you, that trail is fraught with all manner of strange happenings. From disappearances to sudden insanity to spontaneous combustion," He paused, "And, obviously, death."

"The interesting thing though," Artie began after a few moments of additional emphatic silence, "is that, despite the fact that the gun is an antique and should be on a mantle somewhere, the number of instances of strange happenings near the artifact have not lessened over time… It's as if-"

"The pistol is drawing people to use it?" Myka offered.

"Right." He said, with praise, but not surprise. Artie's face then took a more serious look.

"That being the case, I want you to be careful." Both Myka and Pete nodded, with the usual 'right's and 'we will's.

Pete stood up, stretching loudly with a yawn. "Aight, Artemis." Artie cringed at the use of his unwanted nickname he received from she-who-shall-not-be-named. "Where are we headed?"

"To the site of the latest and final disturbance," Artie started, exhausting his supply of emphatic silences, "The City of Angels."

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